The Grand Celestial Hall of Daewyth shimmered like a dream carved into metal and mist.

High above, chandeliers crafted from floating crystal arrays hovered in precise formation, refracting soft ambient light through programmable prisms. Each crystal shimmered with a hue from Daewyth's signature color spectrum—deep ultraviolets, frostblues, and royal obsidian. Light danced across the marbled floor, which itself was a living canvas—microfiber tiles shifting subtly underfoot to absorb footstep pressure and produce gentle ripples of bioluminescent pattern, giving the impression that guests were walking across a starlit lake.

Along the edges of the room, serpentine tables of obsidian glass reflected the guests in perfect mirror-quality polish. Trays hovered slightly above the surface, carried by low-gravity servitors—elegant chrome-limbed androids that glided silently between nobles, offering flutes of luminous nectar-wine and floating delicacies plated on aerogel leaves.

Music filled the air—not from a string quartet, but from a living soundscape generated by a philharmonic AI. It sang in symphonic pulses that responded to motion, scent, and heat signatures in the room, ensuring that every corner of the hall was awash with harmonics tailored to the gathering mood.

Despite the luxury, a growing unease crackled subtly beneath the elegance.

"Still not here," Marsai muttered under her breath.

Her assistant stood trembling behind her, sweat dotting his brow despite the hall's optimized climate. He wordlessly held out a holo-slate. Marsai tapped the screen, and the translucent projection rose before her—a condensed battle report from Biohive 81, timestamped only a few hours ago.

There he was: Nioh.

Hovering like an archangel in black steel, lightning crowned his silhouette. The footage showed the aftermath—smoke, celebration, the prince's silent descent, and the populace weeping with joy.

Marsai's lips tightened.

"Tsk," she hissed. "Why is he farming for positive impressions now? He didn't even send a message."

The assistant didn't answer, but instead hesitantly brought up another slide. It was a favorability graph, projected into a 3D lattice.

"He's skyrocketed," the assistant said. "Currently the second most popular royal after the Queen. Even the monarch's ratings are falling behind in public polls."

Marsai narrowed her eyes.

"And what about the materials? All the ore, the mechanical parts, the organic neural silk brought in from Node 12?"

"We tried. His private quarters are sealed behind a rotating code gate, temporal interference mesh, and something we think is a harmonic signature lock. We lost five infiltration units. Total system wipe. We've got nothing."

"Nothing…" Marsai sighed and straightened her shoulders. Her gown—carbon-silk interlaced with fiberlight—rippled as she moved toward the arching doorway of the hall. "Enough. Let's welcome the guests. We cannot afford whispers about Daewyth hospitality."

The grand arch unfurled like a living gate, responding to her biometric presence.

Two towering figures arrived at once.

"Warden Jubilee, Warden Cohen," Marsai greeted smoothly, voice crisp and light. "Welcome."

Jubilee raised an eyebrow. His long silver hair shimmered with embedded circuitry, and his robes were stitched with Dominion-grade alloy threads.

"Why are you the one doing the welcoming?" he asked, voice faintly amused.

"Because the host is absent," she replied.

"You've really been reduced to a maid," Cohen added, swirling a glass of rose-gold spiced liquor as he walked past.

Marsai's smile didn't falter. "These duties have always been mine."

Jubilee paused. "I heard invitations were sent to the other heirs."

"Yes," Marsai said, adjusting her collar. "However, their confirmations are still… pending."

Jubilee smirked. "Then I'm excited." And with that, he entered.

More nobles arrived in groups of two or three—ministers from the Core Rings, dukes from the Eastern Vaults, and regional administrators from the planetary crust layers.

Their robes were stitched with AI-powered thread, collars hovering an inch above the skin, gravity bracelets floating lazily around their wrists. Some arrived via private stargate portals; others descended from levitating sedan pods outside the hall.

The great ballroom slowly came alive.

Noblewomen with veils of translucent static-silk whispered over glasses of chilling nectar. An old count, more exosuit than man, discussed armament upgrades with a general from the Hollow Suns. Young debutants in holographic gowns showed off gravity-defying waltz routines on the elevated glimmer-floor, hoping to impress whoever dared watch.

Yet, for all the grace and splendor, one topic simmered beneath every conversation like a heat signature beneath polished stone:

Where is Prince Nioh?

"Perhaps he's wounded," someone speculated.

"Nonsense," came a curt reply. "You saw the footage. Not even his wheelchair has a scratch."

"Or maybe he's just a brat playing god with lightning."

Marsai barely had time to issue the message.

The grand doors burst open with a thunderous bang that silenced the hall like a record skip in time. Every head turned. Glasses paused mid-air. Conversations shattered mid-sentence.

There he was.

Prince Nioh.

He emerged not with a royal fanfare, nor the dramatic sparks he'd been known for in recent broadcasts—but with something far more unnerving.

Style.

His wheelchair glided forward, silent as shadow, its obsidian-black frame rimmed in gold-threaded circuit veining that pulsed faintly with electric life. He was dressed immaculately in a pristine white suit—single-breasted, high-collared, with iridescent filigree trailing the seams like woven lightning. A pair of silver gloves with kinetic threading crowned his hands, one resting lightly on the armrest, the other holding a crystalline wine flute.

Akron stepped forward beside him, lifting her flute.

She was dressed in a gown of midnight blue—deep and infinite, like the quiet between stars. It clung to her with the elegance of starlight woven into silk, the fabric threaded with glimmering microcircuits that pulsed faintly with a rhythm of their own. Every movement caused the gown to shimmer with shifting constellations—an ocean of light and code, mimicking the celestial map of the outer rings. Her shoulders were bare, her collarbone adorned with a single crescent-shaped brooch carved from an extinct deep-sea crystal, pulsing softly with kinetic resonance.

Together, they cut through the ballroom like a blade through a breath.

They looked divine. Too divine.

A dangerous kind of divine.

Like angels, yes—but the kind seen in apocalyptic scriptures. The kind that appeared before cities burned.

As they reached the center of the ballroom, a waiter—nervously immaculate—offered a hovering tray. Nioh accepted a glass. So did Akron.

The prince raised the flute to his lips and took a long, unhurried sip. The wine inside sparked faintly, reacting with the lightning residue in his bloodstream, creating a silent ripple of static across the glass's surface.

Then, he lowered the glass and smiled.

A sharp, predatory smile.

"Thank you," Nioh said, voice calm yet crackling with tension, "for coming tonight."

His eyes scanned the room—unflinching, burning. "As I celebrate my return to Daewyth after a long and… arduous journey." A few nobles shifted uncomfortably at the bitterness layered in his words. "I thank you all for your well wishes and your prayers."

The sarcasm was delivered with surgical precision.

Marsai winced internally.

Behind her, Warden Jubilee raised a brow. Warden Cohen tried to hide a smirk.

Nioh took another sip, then continued. "Of course," he said smoothly, "we're still missing a few guests." He glanced toward the vaulted ceiling as if listening to something only he could hear. "But not to worry... they should be arriving—"

He paused.

Then smiled wider.

"Right about now."

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